


Never Free

by leggywillow



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leggywillow/pseuds/leggywillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warden-Commander Surana deals with the responsibilities and dangers of a powerful position she never expected to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aeonar

This was not a meeting the Knight-Commander stationed in Aeonar wanted to have.  Displeased by having the prison’s location divulged to anyone, particularly the Grey Wardens, he hadn’t wanted to speak to Aerie at all.  He had no real choice in the matter: he could scarcely turn away Warden-Commander Surana.

            Her request angered him even more.  Aerie could see it simmering beneath his cool façade.  “I am beginning to doubt the Grey Wardens’ neutrality on matters of magic.”

            With a Grey Warden on the throne, Aerie thought privately that the Grey Wardens had abandoned neutrality a long time ago, if not even intentionally.  Young and inexperienced, she and Alistair had made a great deal of choices during the Blight that did not please Weisshaupt.

            “And not only is the blood mage in question still alive and under the protection of the Grey Wardens, you want me to release his accomplice to you.”

            “Not to me,” Aerie said quickly.  Lily did not need to be inducted into their grisly lives, not after what she had been through.  She needed quiet and care that Aerie and Jowan could never provide, nor would Lily accept it from either of them.  “Send her to a Chantry, where somebody can look after her.”  She would be happy there, where she could at least pray in the sunlight.  “Surely you didn’t intend to keep her imprisoned forever for making a lover’s mistake.”

            The knight commander did not have to say anything.  They both knew that prisoners did not live for more than a handful of years in Aeonar.  Kept secluded from the mage prisoners due to her unique circumstances, Lily’s treatment had been gentle in comparison.  It had likely bought the girl a few years of life that she no longer wanted.  “All I ask is a bit of mercy for one of your own.”

            He snorted.  “None of this has been a request… Commander.”

            Aerie rose from her seat, at her full height scarcely rising about the knight commander sitting.  “It is,” she said, the words tasting bitter with guilt.  She would not force this, not when she had pressed her luck this far already.  “Consider it a favor.  I would be grateful, and I remember my debts.”

            The knight commander was silent, finally pushing to his feet and gesturing to the door.  “I’ll consider it.”

            Eager to be gone but not eager to be forgotten, Aerie pressed: “Send a letter to Vigil’s Keep with your decision.  I’d like to stay informed.”

            With another show of forced politeness, they parted ways.  Two templars led the Warden Commander down the halls of Aeonar.  Aerie tried to keep her face impassive, to show no sign that the heavy stone walls and dampening of her magic affected her in the slightest.  Her escorts left her with her party, where Jowan stopped what Aerie imagined was an hour of anxious pacing to hurry over.  His face was twisted with worry, and she tried not to look at him.

            “Did it work?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low, though it still rang shrilly enough for the entire Warden party to hear.

            “He said he would consider it.”  Jowan’s face fell, and Aerie reached out to touch his shoulder.  He was as thin as she was, despite being a foot taller.  “I’m sorry, Jowan.  I couldn’t do any more.”  The lie pained her, but she had responsibilities.  She had played her hand with the Chantry already.  “I’ve made too many demands of them.”  Aerie couldn’t throw her weight around forever.  Too many Conscriptions, too much flouting of Chantry law, and it would all come crashing down around her head.

            “You should have come for her first.  Not me,” he said thickly, brushing her hand away and turning on his heel.  Aerie knew his moods, but it hurt.  He was right, of course.  Pleading for mercy for a Chantry sister would have been far less damning than demanding the release and Conscription of a man imprisoned for blood magic and murder.  They both knew she had made a mistake, and neither of them knew why she had taken the damn risk.

            “He’s right,” a voice grumbled behind her, and Aerie paled with fury, closing her eyes to keep from lashing out.  _Jowan is my friend, my only friend, the one who made me laugh when I was crying, the one person I can never stand to see hurt no matter how many Maker-damned stupid things he does.  He’s a brother to me._

            “Hawke,” was all that she said, her voice a clipped warning.

            “Sorry,” the recruit muttered.  She shouldn’t have brought either of the new Wardens here—both overly large warriors—but she needed guards.  Besides, Aerie was making so many mistakes these days that it seemed impossible to stop.

            She stared down at the floor for a long moment, trying not to think about the long road to cleaning up her own messes.  She had hoped that the end of the Blight meant the worst was over, but it seemed that wasn’t to be.  “Let’s go,” she said quietly.

            “Gladly,” she heard Hawke grumble, but this time she said nothing at all.


	2. Campfires

            Jowan didn’t speak to her for the rest of the day, even when the other Wardens cheered up marginally as they left the oppressing walls of Aeonar behind them.  She understood his moods better than anyone, but over the course of the day, Aerie’s guilt morphed into extreme irritation.  She had done all that she could, hadn’t she?  He had no right to be such a whiny prat about it, or that's what she told herself.

            She didn’t want to spend the evening staring at the sulk to Jowan’s shoulders, running the gamut of guilt and regrets in her head, so she dug out the flask Oghren had sent along with them.  “Fer ‘mergencies,” he had told her.  Aerie wasn’t sure what kind of emergency would require something so very flammable, but she had accepted it graciously.

            She figured this was just the kind of emergency he must have had in mind, so she gave herself first watch and huddled into her cloak around their campfire.  Jowan went to bed without a word to her.  _Asshole_ , she thought uncharitably. Then again, he wasn’t being particularly gracious, either.  This whole stupid trip was just for him.

            Oghren’s liquor was already stripping away her insides when she realized she wasn’t destined to be left alone to drink and pout.  She heard Hawke approaching long before he entered her peripheral vision.  The man stomped about as loudly as an ogre.

            “You should be sleeping.  Next watch is yours,” Aerie said without looking at him.

            “Hard to sleep when the person on watch is getting drunk.”  She still didn’t need to look at him to know he was scowling—he was always scowling—but she turned her face up to him anyway.

            “I’m not getting drunk, and it’s none of your damn business.  You’re awfully mouthy for a recruit.”  She expected him to behave like the other one: quiet and deferent in the presence of the Hero of Ferelden.  The title was larger than she was, but it meant that most people didn’t mouth off to her once they knew.  “I’m your damn commander, and when I want your input, I’ll ask for it.”  It still felt strange to be so stern, but she’d learned quickly that a heap of titles and a scary reputation wasn’t always going to be enough to convince anyone to listen to an elf.

            He grunted.  “Mean no disrespect.  Ser.”

            Aerie snorted.  “You aren’t too good at saying what you mean, then.”

            “My sister says I always sound like an arse.”

            “Smart woman.”

            His eternal scowl deepened a little at that, but he said nothing.  Aerie peered up at him.  “If you’re going to babysit me while I drink, you might as well sit down.”  Maker, she really was getting drunk if she actually wanted this cranky oaf for company.  “Have some of Oghren’s brew; it’ll burn some new holes in your insides.”

            Hawke looked like he really hadn’t planned on this when he grumped his way over, but he reluctantly sat down next to her with his back to the fire.  She passed the flask his way and snickered at the face he made.  “Maker’s balls,” he cursed once his features untwisted.

            “You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.  Oghren will see to that.”

            “Still better than Kirkwall, I guess,” he muttered.

            “That’s some positive thinking for you,” she said, lifting the flask in a little toast as he passed it back.  “Here’s to ‘things could always be worse.’”

            Hawke actually snorted out a chuckle, and he seemed surprised that he did.  “That’s some Ferelden spirit,” he said.  The reluctant half-smile that she had torn out of him didn’t sit easily on his face, but it looked good.

            “You don’t look like such an ass when you smile,” she commented.

            “Now you really sound like my sister,” he grumbled, almost too quietly to be heard.

            It annoyed her.  “I’m not your damn sister.”

            He looked over, stared at her for too long, and then peered down at his hands.  “Yeah, I know,” he mumbled, a little flush of red coloring his cheeks.  Maker.  That was the last thing she needed: a baby Warden bitterly nursing a crush he didn’t even want to have.

            Aerie sighed and gave him the flask again.  “Have a drink.  Maybe it’ll shrink that chip on your shoulder.”  It was almost fun to watch that scowl come back, just as predictably as she thought it would.

            He drank, and then he drank again.  He was blessedly quiet for a time, and for a while, Aerie found him downright companionable.  She wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, side by side with Hawke staring away from the fire while she gazed into it.  They passed the flask back and forth in silence, and it was nice until Hawke decided to open his damn mouth again.  “Why him?”

            Aerie didn’t bite right away.  “Why who?”

            “Jowan.  You know what he is, what the Chantry thinks of that.  Maker, what any sane person ought to think of that.  Why him?”

            “He’s my friend,” Aerie said, before she thought about it.

            “So you Joined him just to save a friend?  Is that really all this is?  A sanctuary for people who’d be better off dead?”

            It was so true that it hurt.  There had only been one reason for Jowan’s Joining: Aerie couldn’t imagine a world without that fool in it.  It had been an abuse of the position she had found herself in, and she knew it.  That didn’t mean she liked having it pointed out to her.

            “That’s how we all got here, isn’t it?” she snapped, turning her face from the fire to glare at the strong profile of his face.  “We were all tainted or condemned.  That’s how _you_ got here.”  Hawke’s transfer to Ferelden had come with a letter from Stroud, explaining that the young man had been part of some treasure hunt in the Deep Roads and fallen afoul of darkspawn.  The bad part of only receiving a letter was that Aerie could not ask why Stroud had been willing to give the Joining to a strange boy underground.  _This was a debt owed,_ was the closest he had come to explaining it.

            “I’m not a blood mage.  I’m not dangerous, not like him.  Some of the shit I saw in Kirkwall…”

            “Don’t even talk to me about seeing shit, Carver Hawke.  I saw Kinloch Hold during the Blight.  I know exactly how dangerous a blood mage can be, but here’s the thing: the Grey Wardens don’t care.  We take what help we can get, because we know there are things out there that are worse.  We even do a little blood magic ourselves, or did you forget the part where you choked some down?”  The Joining wasn’t really blood magic as far as she knew—just magic _involving_ blood, which she didn’t like to think about—but it felt like a nice barb to throw at him.

            Aerie stood up, shoving the flask back into his hands while he glowered up at her.  “Here.  Think it’s your watch now.”

            She wanted to storm off without another word, but the idea of walking back to Amaranthine with half of their party too angry with her to speak wasn’t a pleasant one.  Aerie halted just beyond the glow of the fire and spoke over her shoulder, her voice strained but softer.  “That’s the truth of the Wardens.  Who we are, the things we do… I’m sorry you weren’t given a choice to be part of this.”  She hadn’t had a choice either, not from the very beginning.  She knew that didn’t make any of it easier to bear.

            “That’s… thanks,” he muttered.  “I’m sorry for speaking out of turn.”  The apology clearly burned coming out.

            Aerie shrugged, too tired all of a sudden to care.  “S’not so bad having someone say what they mean sometimes.”  Even if that someone was as absolutely cantankerous as Hawke.

            She didn’t look back at him again, trusting him to his watch.


	3. Antiva

            In Antiva City, dark deeds could be arranged in sunlight.  The darkness was meant to shelter pleasures, not shame—if shame indeed existed in Antiva.  The man who wove through the crowd didn’t seem to be entirely sure of this, though.  Though he kept his hood down, he hunched into a thick dark cloak even though the weather had not yet begun to properly turn chilly for the season.

            He looked uncomfortable, but it was not from nerves or fear.  No, this man’s discomfort came from simply being out of his element in a foreign land, the man watching in the shadows decided.  The shadow peeled away from the wall and called out: “Please, my fair Fereldan, there is no need to worry about being conspicuous.  We can all smell dog on you from five meters away.”

            Pale eyes narrowed and slid from side to side as the merchants and passersby in earshot chuckled before going about their business.  The Fereldan stepped in close: “I was told to meet the guildmaster,” he said in a quiet growl.

            “I am he,” the guildmaster said, bowing with a flourish.

            “Should we go somewhere more private?” the Fereldan asked.

            Zevran Arainai’s tattooed brow rose in bemusement.  “Why?  Do you intend to show me something worthy of privacy?”  Amber eyes flickered to the man’s trousers and back up.

            That got a flush from the Fereldan, who scowled.  “Ser, this is a holy and dire business.”

            “The business of the bedroom is the most holy.”  Before the Fereldan could bluster any further, Zevran raised a hand.  “Fereldans are still artless in conversation, I see.  No, we conduct our business here.”  It may have seemed to be a crowded street, and it was, but it was also a location of Zevran’s choosing and that was not an advantage he would forsake lightly.  Empty rooms could have as many ears as packed markets, he found.

            “I have come to you for a contract.”

            “Most do,” Zevran said pleasantly.  “Though I was told I would be meeting a Brother of the Chantry, and I have to say, you do not look the part.”  Curiosity over the unique request was the only reason Zevran had agreed to meet with this contractor personally.  Most Brothers did not wear such heavy plate beneath their cloaks.

            “I am not of the Chantry any longer, but I do the Maker’s work,” the Fereldan said with a demure bob of his head.

            “According to legend, the Crows began in much the same way.  It would be fitting to come full circle, yes?” Zevran said with amusement.

            “Then I hope we can reach an accord,” the Fereldan said.  “I need a contract against Warden-Commander Surana of Ferelden.”

            Zevran’s face and posture did not change.  There was not even the slightest twitch of muscle to give away that he knew the name—though the Fereldan’s ignorance proved that knowledge of his personal rise to guildmaster remained a secret for now.  That was good.

            The man’s request, however, was not.

            “No,” Zevran said evenly.

            The not-Brother looked shocked at that.  “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

            “It is a word that means we do not have an agreement.  There will be no contract, and no Crow will touch the woman you speak of,” Zevran said.  His voice remained as smooth and sweet as honey, but there was a threat growing in it.  “She has an arrangement that predates yours.  We are done here.”

            The Fereldan’s eyes were so wide Zevran thought they might pop out, and he reached out to grab the elf’s shoulder when Zevran made to turn away.  He let out a cry when Zevran snapped three of his fingers in a movement too fast to follow.  “Do not touch a guildmaster of the Crows uninvited.  Consider that a lesson.”  The not-Brother gritted his teeth, and Zevran leaned in close.  “I will teach you another lesson for free: do not trifle with Surana.  It will not end well for you.”

            “I am not alone,” the Fereldan choked out.

            Zevran patted him on the cheek.  “Neither was the Archdemon, my friend.  Now go home.”

            Zevran left then.  Two women melted out of the shadows as he left the astonished and anguished Brother behind him.  “Shall we kill him?” one asked.

            It was a tempting idea.  Slitting the man’s throat and tossing him into the harbor would be a nice gesture, but one did not become a guildmaster by discarding the threads that could unravel an entire scheme if they were only tugged on enough.  “No.”  He glanced at the women: one an elf with red-hair, the other a tall Rivaini with her hair shorn off entirely.  “Inyria, follow him.  Intercept his letters, if he sends any.  I do not think he was lying when he said he was not alone.  Reshida, you will come with me.”

            Zevran sighed.  He did not truly want to travel from AntivaCity, not while his hold on the guild was so newly and bloodily obtained, but a good assassin trusted his instincts.  This strange man who claimed to not work for the Chantry yet do the Maker’s work had sent up a flare of warning.  “I believe it’s time I visited an old friend.”

            Zevran turned to give Reshida his best and most rakish grin.  His fellow Crows did not need to know the depth of his suspicions.  “I won’t lie to you and say Ferelden is lovely this time of year, but I suspect it will be an entertaining journey.”


	4. Denerim

            The Grey Wardens’ journey back to Amaranthine would have them take a ship out of Denerim, saving them some of the overland hike.  The city had changed a great deal in the few years since the Blight’s end.  Nearly ravaged to the ground in fire and battle, it had survived and been rebuilt.  Changed but still standing, like the survivors who dwelled there.  Like Aerie.

            Like Alistair.

            It never got any easier to come to the king’s city, and Aerie’s eye flickered to FortDrakon as they passed beneath the gates.  It was hard not to imagine that she saw the shadows of Archdemon’s wings there, and she caught herself glancing up more often than she liked just to make sure there was truly nothing there.  A hero shouldn’t still be terrified, she thought, but it seemed there were a lot of things no one ever said about heroes.

            She didn’t expect anyone in their little party to notice her shift in mood.  Jowan was still too wrapped up in his own problems, and Hawke—well, what did Hawke know about her, anyway?  Just because the cranky lug was the only cute fellow around didn’t mean she needed to give a damn what he thought, or did not think.

            Aerie was surprised, then, when a little frown creased his brow after the fifth time she turned her head to peer at FortDrakon.  “You alright, Commander?” he asked in a low tone that implied he was trying to be subtle, despite the fact that his voice still carried in a low rumble.

            “I’m fine,” she said.

            Aerie tried not to look up at the fort after that.  She tried not to think about the way Riordan had looked when they found him smashed against the cobblestones, the decayed stench of the Archdemon’s breath in her face, or the way its blood felt so hot she thought she was on fire when she sliced its throat with Alistair’s sword.

            She did a very poor job of not thinking about it all the way to the Grey Warden compound in the city, where a messenger in fancy palace livery was waiting for them with a polite invitation to meet the king and queen at their leisure.

            “None of you have to go with me,” Aerie said to her wardens over the clatter of bits and pieces of armor being removed and dropped to the floor.  They all looked relieved, and she couldn’t blame them.  A hot bath and a long nap sounded tempting to her, too, almost enough to make her shirk the invitation herself if she could be certain Queen Anora wouldn’t see it as an offense.

            Hawke hesitated.  “Nah, I’ll go.  Commanders don’t wander around by themselves, right?”

            Aerie shrugged.  “Have it your way.”  She didn’t want to admit that he was right, and she knew better than most that the streets weren’t always kind to elven women.  Anyone who crossed her would regret it, but setting fire to folks in the street wouldn’t do anything to mollify the Chantry.  A heavily armored man with a sword as big as she was on his back would dissuade most people thinking about causing trouble.

            The walk to the palace was quiet, and after a bit Aerie had to break the silence: “You really didn’t have to come.”

            He shrugged, setting leather and metal creaking against each other.  “Not in the habit of sending people off alone.”

            “We’re walking through the city in daylight, not the Deep Roads.”

            His face darkened in a scowl.  “I’m being _polite_.”

            Aerie had to laugh at the sulky set to his shoulders, but then she winced.  She had no need to question him so.  “You are.  Sorry.  I’m not very good at polite.”

            He grunted in response, and it seemed like the rest of the walk was going to be a silent one.  Aerie decided she didn’t mind the silence when she could accept it at face value, and with Carver Hawke, she had a feeling that she could.

            The palace guards recognized their uniforms, and likely recognized Aerie by her face, even before she pulled out the sealed invitation.  They were led through the palace grounds, and Aerie could recognize the tension building up in Hawke’s posture.  This was the kind of expensive, well-decorated, fancy place where neither of them felt comfortable.

            She wondered if Alistair felt as out of place there as she did.

            The guards escorted them to an ornate sitting room, the kind of place where dignitaries and important people could be greeted, and Aerie nearly laughed at how absurd it all was.  “The king will be informed of your arrival, Commander,” the guard said.

            A servant appeared when the guard left, offering them refreshments.  Aerie nearly turned them down out of polite habit, but the growling stomachs of the Grey Wardens had other ideas.  Food was an instant way to cheer up a Grey Warden, and Hawke certainly looked more comfortable once he was shoveling cheese into his mouth.  “You’re getting crumbs on the rug,” Aerie pointed out, though the bulge of bread in her cheeks belied any seriousness.

            Hawke peered down as if to see whether the crumbs were large enough to eat, and then shrugged.  “Kings have cleaning people, right?”

            “You’re terrible,” she said with a sudden grin.

            Carver hesitated but then grinned back at her and looked as though he might be trying to think of something funny to say when the door creaked open.

            “King Alistair to see Warden-Commander Surana,” a guard announced.


	5. The Palace, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Short chapter but I've been struggling with this for a while, so here's SOMETHING at least)

Aerie stood up politely when the king entered the sitting room, and Carver pushed up to his feet as well. 

Alistair had always looked good in gold.  Aerie had never noticed that until he had stood before their armies at the Battle of Denerim, silhouetted against the burning city.  Fire glimmered in the reflection of his polished golden armor, and for the first time he had looked like a king. 

The gold trim that he wore now brought out the brilliant highlights in his hair, which was about all she had time to register before Alistair enveloped her in a bear hug that lifted her off her feet and sent Carver edging away.  It was always like this when the met again.  For the span of a breath or two, it was as though not a single day had passed since they had last seen each other.  It was as though the events following the Landsmeet had never happened and the decisions that tore them apart had never been made.

 

\- - -

_“So that’s it then?”  Her voice sounded eerily flat even to her own ears, and Aerie looked down.  Her knuckles were white from gripping the back of the velvet-cushioned chair, but that was better than loosening her grip enough for them to visibly shake._

_Alistair’s eyes were red-rimmed.  “I… it’s… you know this isn’t working.”_

_She did know.  Aerie felt a prickle building in her eyes that she blinked away, staring down at her hands instead of meeting Alistair’s gaze.  She wished that he had done this while she wearing something other than the gown she wore to court—the stiff lace on the cuffs itched, and the fur lining her collar was only making her face grow hot more quickly._

_This was not a surprise.  The people would not tolerate the king’s very public elven lover for long, especially one who had served as his advisor for the past six months.  As soon as the memories of the feasts and parades in her honor faded, the people remembered what she was—and she was not worth their golden king._

_When she managed to speak again, her voice remained mostly steady, if flat with pain.  “I’ve worn out my welcome, I suppose.  Knew all along that it wouldn’t last.”_

_His voice was tight and choked.  “I didn’t.”_

_Aerie hadn’t trusted herself to speak any more.  She had packed her things and left the palace that same day, disguising it all as a return to duty for the Warden Commander of Ferelden._


End file.
